


The Secret Santa Job

by page_runner



Category: Leverage
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Developing Relationship, Found Family, Multi, and a little angst, early OT3, gives the fluff the right amount of squish, gratuitous use of nightmare before christmas lyrics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-17 03:29:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13068171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/page_runner/pseuds/page_runner
Summary: “You told Parker you were going to fillet Santa?” Hardison looks horrified.“Boil him, actually. And she asked me to chop someone's head off last week! How is threatening someone fictional worse than that?”





	The Secret Santa Job

**Author's Note:**

  * For [venilia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/venilia/gifts).



> Written for the Leverage Secret Santa 2017 for the excellent venilia, who prompted Hardison and Eliot not being sure if Parker actually believes in Santa... I hope you like it!

“ _Kidnap the Sandy Claws…_ ”

She’s singing the song. Again. Ever since Hardison got the oh-so-idiotic idea to show Parker a movie about a bunch of monsters stealing Christmas a week back, she’s been fixated on this song. This high-pitched, sing-song chant of violence that is giving him _ideas_ he shouldn’t be contemplating around Christmas. He’d asked Hardison who wrote the thing while he was distracted enough by some tech thing to overlook the imminent violence in Eliot’s tone, but the moment Parker’d heard the guy’s name had the word “Elf” in it, he’d been official declared off-limits.

This isn’t like a normal psy-op – he’s handled music in torture situations before and spite is a great motivator in that regard. But here…

Parker’s twirling around the room, trailing garlands of tinsel like a disco ball crossed with a jellyfish. Because it’s Parker, it’s somehow getting everywhere regardless of any laws of gravity or taste.

Because it’s Parker, he can’t look away.

“ _Wait, I've got a better plan_  
To catch this big red lobster man  
Let's pop him in a boiling pot  
And when he's done we'll butter him up!”

She squeals the last line of the verse, beaming and completely oblivious to the jumping muscle in his clenched jaw. If he doesn’t put a stop to this, he’ll be in for another thirteen sing-song verses of Santa torture.

“Parker, if you sing that song one more time, I will PERSONALLY do everything it mentions,” Eliot snarls, leaving off slicing apples to flip his perfectly weighted, Japanese steel chef’s knife into position for an overhand stab. Not something he’ll ever subject this blade to if he has a choice, but then he’d never use an overhand stab either. Quick way to get yourself eviscerated, leaving an opening that big.

Usually, details like that are enough to clue Parker in, but this time the threat stops her in her tracks. “No, you won’t! Santa’s our friend! Not food!”

There’s something behind her tone and her expression that he can’t quite read, but he backs off the threat anyway. “No, course not. No boiling Santa,” he promises, marveling at how soft he’s gone that he’s actually reassuring her he doesn’t eat mythical people.  

She nods, apparently satisfied, and skips over to give him a peck on the cheek, which turns into a bit more than a peck, and by the time she whirls away to retrieve her tinsel, his mouth’s gone numb and the apples gone missing.

His jaw is nice and loose again, though.

It’s the first Christmas with just the three of them—Sophie's gone and grifted her and Nate a blizzard in the Swiss Alps—and Parker’s already starting to out-Parker herself with Christmas weirdness. It’s also their first Christmas as a . . . well, as something anyway, and he’s still not quite sure what that something is, or how it works. It just kinda _happened_ – despite his best attempts to resist Hardison’s knowing smirk (like he knows anything) or Parker’s bright eyes (and who the hell can guess what they see in him). Hardi— _Alec_ —doesn’t seem interested in figuring out what this… _thing_ …is, making it the only thing not needing to bickered about, poked and prodded and studied with schematics and 3D models and whatever else he uses to analyze everything else. And Parker just seems happy that he’s left off growling when she climbs him like jungle gym. Which should make this easy. Probably would be if he could get out of his own head, but he’s never been good at that around Christmas. So half the time it feels like a wonderland and half the time like he’s slip-sliding on ice, and hell, maybe Christmas is contagious, but he and Parker have very different ideas of how it ought to be spent.

He (with the help of the Brewpub staff) have arrangements to provide Christmas feasts to several shelters and veterans organizations throughout the city, which means he needs a menu and the best apple pie recipe he can dream up. Now that Parker’s stolen his apples, she’s off to threaten another room with a barrage of tinsel, and he’s relieved, he is, but he keeps glancing up, waiting for her to come back and tell him his apples are wrong. _Your own fault for stealing them before they’re baked into pie,_ he can grumble at her, and maybe get her interested in helping him make the syrup. But she doesn’t reappear, so he shakes his head and goes back to prep work.

 

“Hey Eliot, what’d you say to Parker earlier? She’s been acting weird . . . –er than normal. Asking me all kinds of Santa-related questions.”

Eliot starts, glancing at the clock, and only then realizing it’s well past midnight. “Huh? She still going on about me cooking Santa? ‘Cause I promised her I wouldn’t.”

“You told Parker you were going to fillet Santa?” Hardison looks horrified.

“Boil him, actually. And she asked me to chop someone's head off last week! How is threatening someone fictional worse than that?”

“You know how she feels about Christmas, man!”

Eliot sighs; there’s no winning this one. “Fine, I'll make it up to her. Any ideas?”

“Oh, I have some ideas,” he says, nestling up behind Eliot and wrapping his arms around his waist. The last pie’s just come out of the oven and there’s still a few things left to clear away, but damn if it isn’t nice to just stop for a moment and lean back against Alec. “But since you’re doin’ all this stress baking, I’d start with cookies. Y’know, those powdered sugar ones, with the little black specks?”

“Vanilla bean," Eliot supplies. “the specks are vanilla, just not that fake extract crap, and I ain’t stress baking!” He’s pretty sure he has a Santa cookie cutter around here somewhere.

“Yeah! Those!” Alec says, for once letting one of Eliot’s denials stand. It’s oddly destabilizing, this aspect of their new territory. Used to be, Hardison would argue everything he said, just ‘cause. Now, he pulls Eliot closer, leaning down to murmur, “Tomorrow. You look beat, I am beat, and the tinsel Park-nado’s finally come down off her sugar high and crashed for the night, it’s adorable.”

Somehow, Parker sprawled on the back of the couch underneath a blanket of tinsel and ribbon does look adorable. He shifts what he can out of the way and lifts her, the pit of his stomach warming as she nuzzles his neck sleepily.

“I love you, Santa,” she murmurs.

And there goes his stomach, plummeting to the floor. He pulls up for a moment, Alec bumping into his back, and its only years of practice convincing his muscles to move when they’d rather do anything but that gets him going again, the words twining through his head like tinsel.

 

He can’t stop thinking about it. After a few hours of lying next to them, unable to sleep, he’d finally gotten up, gone and finished cleaning the kitchen like he should have before going to bed in the first place, and ends up making Parker’s cookies then and there. And cleans the kitchen again.

He’s certain he heard it right—it’s a very distinctive phrase—but it doesn’t matter because she’d been off in her Christmas dreamland with Santa. Is it possible to be jealous of a myth? Not that he is, but—

—But what if she’d meant it? For him, that is. He and Parker, they don’t talk feelings much. That’s what sharp fingers and sharper words were for. And Hardison did enough of the feelings stuff for the three of them. They don’t use words like _love_. It’s a fucking timebomb, a word like that. For people like them. And hell, if she’s saying . . . saying words like that, then she should be saying them to Alec. He’s the one who deserves it. He’s the one who knows how to handle something that big. ‘Cause it is that big, coming from Parker.

There’s a lot of things he can handle, but he makes sure he’s off on a run by the time Parker wakes up and has his Santa cookies for breakfast.  

 

******

 

Christmas always puts Hardison in the mood for some nefarious do-gooding.

With Parker bouncing off the walls on a Santa tear, and Eliot hiding out in his kitchen sanctum, he’s been scratching the itch by paying off layaway charges at every single bargain-mart store he can think of. Okay, so maybe not paying them, exactly, but the system thinks they are paid in full. Age of the Geek, right there. And it’s fun, of course, he’s grinning now as he imagines the faces of the families scraping up to pay the bills after the holidays and discovering they don’t exist – one less thing on their plate.

But damn, this whole thing would be so much sweeter if he could just draw Eliot out a bit more. He’s a goddamn expert at wrangling Eliot’s obstinate ass into doing things the dude probably wants to do, if he’d just admit it to himself. Hell, between him and Parker, they’d managed to poke and prod Eliot into their arms and eventually their bed, and that’s a damn good start. But he’s never been one to think small, and he _knows_ Eliot’s capable of being just about the best boyfriend in the world, if only he’d climb out of those defenses he’s built, and cooperate. And yeah, he can be patient, like he was with Parker, but their girl had to learn all this stuff from scratch. Eliot knows his way around a relationship. Maybe it’s like Sophie on stage – only able to act if she’s being someone else. Not that Eliot’s tried to pull something like that; they all know each other too well.

“Do you think Santa needs a new set of lock picks?” Parker’s on her fourth of Eliot’s apology cookies, so Hardison’s gonna consider that negotiation a success between his people. Baby steps. 

“Babe, why does Santa need an old set of lock picks?”

“Chimneys are impractical entry points these days.” She bites the head off another Santa shape. Eliot maybe has a point about her willingness to decapitate things, but damn she looks cute doing it.

“I—I think the elves make his lock picks, actually,” he offers after a moment, very pleased with this answer. He’s not about to ruin Parker’s Christmas fun. He’d had his own illusions about Santa popped early, thanks to his stint in a Jehovah’s Witness foster home, and got plenty of practice at Nana’s, keeping Santa spoilers away from the younglings.

Parker gasps. “They WOULD! I should ask for some!” She dashes off, probably to add it to her secret Christmas list that he's been trying to find for months. Good thing she ends up running everything by him first, like some kind of Santa proxy.

A rather sweaty Eliot, about to enter through the same door, jumps out of her way, before frowning at the abandoned plate of decapitated cookies.  

“Hey El, can you keep Parker busy tonight? I need to machine some elven lock picks.”

Eliot’s never as subtle as he thinks he is, but he’s looking downright jumpy for a guy who’s been off doing cardio all morning, rather than experiencing the joys of Parker eating cookies over his head. Crumbs in his ear is definitely not high on his list of ways to wake up. Not that it’d been on his list before today. Still, at least he woke up. Eliot doesn’t look like he’s actually slept, a fact Alec knows better than to point out.

“Is this one of your weird orc things?” he growls, picking up the plate to set it somewhere reasonable, like a table. Maybe that’s what’s got him in a mood. Christmas around here is distinctly lacking in reason. At least he’s not threating to blow Danny Elfman to smithereens anymore.

“No! Elves like Santa’s elves.” He clarifies, very aware he should skate away from mentions of elves as soon as possible. “I maybe told Parker they make Santa's lock picks.”

He expects Eliot to mutter something disparaging about that, but instead he just looks thoughtful. “She believe that? Like, all the Santa stuff. North Pole, and elves, and reindeer, and shit? I mean, it’s kids’ stuff. But it’s also . . . Parker.”

“Far as I can tell. She’s never been big on differentiating real and not real. Remember the whole thing with Sophie being “dead”?” He shrugs. “Does it matter?” Eliot’s mouth twists, and he’s briefly distracted imagining himself untwisting it, and how he can do that now, they’ve finally cleared that hurdle and Eliot’s actually sticking around, even through the holiday chaos, when it’s clear the whole thing’s setting his teeth on edge. “Hey man, if this gets to be too much, I can rein her in a bit. I know she’s a lot to handle, this time of year.”

He shakes his head. “Nah, it’s fine.” Which figures. When Eliot labels something as “fine”, it means it’s horrific and painful. “So, what else is on this list of hers?”

“She mentioned the chocolate fountain in Las Vegas a few months back . . .” he’s not kidding, but he is teasing, and hopes Eliot understands, since his mouth’s gone all twisty again. “I haven’t actually found her list for this year yet. It’s like a scavenger hunt. I’ve already done a radar sweep of the vents and came up empty. But she usually has some question about Santa before she sticks something on it.”

“‘Cause she thinks he’s real,” Eliot mutters, instead of ranting about the chocolate fountain thing. Weird. Maybe asking him to distract Parker wasn’t the best idea, but it’s just about impossible to talk Eliot out of something he’s already agreed to, like the guy has some moral obligation to suffer through it. Christmas isn’t something to be suffered through, which means he’s going to have to keep an eye on Eliot’s pursuit of martyrdom.

At least he’s got a patch for that twisty mouth of his.

 

******

 

Usually, he’s an expert at compartmentalization. Not on Parker’s level, but Parker’s compartments only sometimes follow any sort of logic, which is why she can’t be bothered to categorize Santa as real or not real, and he’s standing here, unable to get past a stupid four-word phrase. Real fucking professionals, they are.

“I didn't mean the thing about Santa, you know that, right?” He feels awkward, asking that. But she’s weird about Christmas, and Santa. Probably something in her past explains it, but they don’t talk that shit either. What’s done is done. No one knows that better than him. Still, this like walking on thin ice, sliding over stuff that isn’t nearly as deep as they’d both like to pretend.

“Good, because you don’t do that anymore.” She’s drizzling chocolate in intricate designs on a cool marble slab, while he curls up pieces from a sheet of the stuff. Hardison mentioning the chocolate fountain gave him the idea, and while he’s not going to go steal a fountain, especially not in Vegas of all godforsaken places, Parker seems to like this replacement of fooling around with chocolate for an evening. “You’re not the Oogie Boogie man.”

“Right,” he answers, not that he was looking for reassurance on that front. Mostly, he’s hoping this isn’t going to inspire a new rendition of _that song_ because then he definitely will start threatening Santa torture all over again and prove her wrong.

“Any good Santa will know you’re nice now, not naughty.” She hits him on the shoulder reassuringly. It actually hurts, which is reassuring, though probably not in the way she intends. _Dammit, even Parker knows something’s up with me._

“Well, maybe I’m a little bit naughty…” he whispers into her ear, enjoying her slight shiver. It’s a promising misdirection, something else fun they can do while Alec’s off pretending to be a North Pole elf instead of a Middle Earth elf for the night. Get both of their minds off this Santa crap that’s permeating everything.

She giggles. “He sees you when you’re—”

“DAMMIT, PARKER!” He doesn’t mean to yell. He’s just fucking sick of talking, and thinking, and breathing her Santa obsession. He’s not a damn grifter – usually – and this ducking and dodging away from something everyone _knows_ —

Parker’s got this way of making her eyes look huge and sad, and it’s like Sophie and the fucking tea all over again, only worse because some things are conditioned, one of them being that you don’t yell at people you’re sleeping with, and he’s had too many years of practice redirecting his lovers away from his shit and this is probably why his brain supplies him with a tried and true fallback.

“I can't talk about that, Parker.” He says it calm, and back in control, which is where he should be. Yelling at Parker the Thief is one thing. Yelling at Parker the—? _Girlfriend. She’s your girlfriend. That happened. Is happening. Sometimes impossible things happen. Pull yourself together and deal._

Most women, they take it as mysterious and dangerous, and a lil’ bit sexy, he’s willing to admit, and Parker’s a woman, and, yeah, dating him for some goddamn reason, so maybe it has a chance of working and she’ll forget him yelling.

Oh, who’s he kidding.

“That was your top-secret clearance voice!” Parker, girlfriend or not, is still Parker.

“What? No, it wasn’t!” It’s a pointless denial the minute he says it, and Parker pokes him, hard.

“Yes! It was. You have top-secret Santa knowledge! Spill it, Sparky!”

The thing about a terrible lie—a really blatantly hopeless lie . . . is it’s really very easy to follow it up with a decent one and have it be comparatively brilliant.

 

“Hey man, you wouldn't happen to know why Parker’s askin’ me to retask a military satellite so you can track Santa for her in real time like you apparently used to do in NORAD?” Hardison has to bend over irritatingly far to place his elbows on the kitchen counter and prop his chin on them, before giving Eliot a beatific smile.

_Well shit._

“I—it just kinda happened.”

“Riiight,” Hardison says, like he doesn’t believe Eliot’s capable of letting things get as far as ‘just happening’. “So which one should I use?”

“We ain’t hacking a military satellite, Hardison!”

“You ain’t, that’s for damn sure. And since when is national security more important than Parker’s Christmas?”

“Dammit, Hardison! This is getting out of hand!”

“Hey, I am not the one who chickened out and told her about the NORAD Santa Tracker!”

“You started it!”

“Started what?” Parker asks from behind them, causing him to nearly jump out of his skin, ‘cause no one should be that quiet.

“Uh . . .”

“Hey, babe, Eliot an’ me, we was just bickering, you know how he gets an’—”

“Santa’s not real, Parker.” Someone has to say it and Hardison’s too chickenshit, so he’ll be the mean one, do the dirty work.

He expects—well he ain’t quite sure what he expects, since it’s Parker and in five years he’s never been able to quite pin her down. Usually he’s got people pegged in the first five minutes, so that in itself is a wonder and a half. But he expects her to get angry, maybe cry, maybe jump out the window. Parker loves Christmas and he’s ruining it, their first one together, ‘cause breaking things is just about all he’s good at.

She tilts her head, like a hound dog triangulating a sound, her eyes flicking back and forth between the two of them. “Of course Santa’s not ‘real,’” she says, complete with an overdone wink and exaggerated air quotes.

“Parker—”

She folds her arms stubbornly. “We can’t talk about that!” she whispers, echoing his stupid conversational escape hatch, only she actually means it. “We have to protect the SSS!” She literally hisses that last bit and at least he ain’t the only one staring at her in shock right now.

“What’s the SSSSSS?” Hardison hisses too, and that’s it then, his partners have officially lost their fucking minds. Not that they were all that sane to begin with but…

“The ES. ES. ES,” Parker enunciates the triple letter slowly as if they’re the crazy ones. “The Secret Santa Society.”

“Secret Santa . . . Society?” Hardison’s curiosity radar’s going off, just like it always does when Parker says something extra weird. Eliot takes a breath, steps off to the side, which isn’t as far as he’d originally intended to remove himself from this insanity, but he’s maybe just a bit curious too. “As in . . . a society of secret Santas?”

“More like a secret society of Santas. But they like it when people get it wrong. Confusion is good cover.”

“Santa’s one guy, Parker. He lives as the North Pole with a buncha elves and reindeer and shit like that. He’s not a fucking freemason!” And sure, maybe he’s finally given up going along with Hardison’s prime directive approach, but there’s a difference between thinking Santa’s real and getting the story wrong. 

“That’s just THE Santa. Obviously there are more, don’t be stupid! But with a satellite—”

“Forget the satellite, Eliot was just bein’ Eliot.” Alec gives him a look to signal he’s got this, and Eliot believes him; he’s the one always digging deeper with Parker, making the effort to figure her out. “What do you know about the Secret Santa Society?”

“A Santa told me about them, but he said I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone!” She looked down. “He was nice. He had a bell and he shared his lunch with me and I asked him if Santa would still find me if he didn’t know where I lived because I didn’t know where I lived and anyway I didn’t have a chimney. Or a roof. He told me about the secret society. How there are lots of Santas. They’re in disguise most of the year, but they put on their uniforms at Christmas and do… Santa stuff. They give presents, find out what kids want, and laugh a lot. I don’t know how you become one though.” She pursed her lips. “I always thought it would be nice to be a Santa.”

Alec’s clearly waiting for Parker to continue, so Eliot follows his lead, conscious of the sour twist in his stomach.

“Anyway, he came back the next day, and he had a brand-new coat, that was just a little too big for me—he said it was so I could grow into it and use it longer, but I knew it was because Santa knew I wished for a big warm coat to stash stuff in. And then I had to leave, because even though he was a Santa, he was also a grown-up, and he’d tell on me, and I wasn’t going back.” She smiles suddenly, as if everything about what she just said was okay, not another example of her nightmare of a childhood.

No wonder she was always on him about respecting the suit, back during that Santa job.

“Parker—” he starts, without a clear idea of what he should say next, but she interrupts him.

“It’s okay. I know there’s stuff you can’t talk about, and Alec talks too much, so I have to be careful about which questions I ask him. But you two keep whispering and watching me, and I promise, I won’t tell anyone you’re Santas.”

Alec’s staring at her, his mouth wide open and no sound coming out, and Eliot should say something, if only to rib on him for being speechless for once, but he’s no better, thanks to those four words from the other night pounding in his head now. _Could she have meant—_ and then he’s shoving past Hardison and gone.

 

Hardison finds him back in the kitchen, where he’s not hiding. He doesn’t hide. He’s just got a lot of work to do and he still has no fucking clue what to say to Parker. “She’s right, weird as it sounds.”

“Parker’s Parker,” he snaps, focusing on keeping his knife steady. “Right and wrong don’t quite align around her.”

“Like a compass at the North Pole?” Hardison teases. “‘Cause the needle’s pointin’ every which way don’t mean it’s not north.”

“Means it’s every way but north.” He can’t stop arguing with Hardison any more than he can stop breathing, apparently. The stupid thing is, that’s coming easier now, too.

“Or it means you’re exactly where you need to be.” He steps closer, his voice softening. “We can see that, even if you can’t.”

Eliot ignores him, continues chopping the vegetables needed for the stock he’s intent on making until Hardison finally gets the hint and leaves. Yeah, he’s being an idiot. So what if Parker’s obsessed with Santas and secret societies and found a way to slot them into her weird world? Of course she likes the idea of Santa—someone who breaks into people’s houses and is nice to kids. Hell, if anyone’s a Santa, it’s PARKER, not him.

Huh.

In his experience, dating someone is easy. He knows the right things to say, the right gestures to make. He’s good at listening to what’s said and what’s meant, and adjusting accordingly. But now with Parker and Hardison—they have him twisted every which way, and nothing he says or does feels right anymore.

It should be easier, is all, apologizing to the people you—who have your back. He shouldn’t keep twitching his shoulders, trying to remember what to do with his hands, stuttering a bit as he approaches Hardison on his computer.

“Hu-hey. So . . .” 

Which is as far as he gets before Hardison turns, catching his face in his hands as he rises, and kisses him deep and warm and soft.

“I know Parker’s a lil’ much this time of year,” Hardison murmurs, offering him absolution before Eliot can even form a cohesive response. “You do your thing. I got this.”

He does, he’s proved that time and again, but Eliot’s never been good at taking the easy way out, nor does he want to, now that he’s got a clearer idea of what he’s dealing with. “How many houses you think we could break into in a night?”

“How many what now?” Hardison blinks, taking a step back.

Eliot huffs, irritated at the sudden absence of his warmth. “Say we did play Santa for a night. The three of us. Lotta kids around the city don’t have much under the tree, and the ones that don’t have parents . . .” He knows that look, the cogs starting to tick in his boyfriend’s big brain.

“Okay, so say we limit our parameters to foster homes, hack into the CPS system, compare names there to bank statements, and . . .” Eliot loses track of the word barrage, but that’s fine by him; Hardison’s already turning back to his computer, beginning to pull up windows and typing madly. “We’re gonna need—”

“Presents, yeah, Parker will have some ideas. Where is she?”

 

He finds her on the roof, wind in her hair and tear tracks down her cheeks that could be from the cold, or the fact that he’s an asshole.

“Sorry about earlier,” he says. It’s a lame attempt at an apology. He pulls off his beanie, settles it snug over her ears, before she turns to give him a small shrug.

“Alec said Christmas isn’t your thing and that I need to be okay with that.”

“It’s not that, it’s just...Christmas is distinctive.” She smiles at his word choice, but if he’s explaining this, he’s gonna do it right. “I don’t know how you memorize all the random stuff in your head, but I connect things to other things. Places, smells, times of year, temperature. Make sense?”

He’s doing a shit job of explaining it, but she nods. “And Christmas…?”

“…Has a lot of things tied to it. Some nice, some not so much.” It’s his shit to deal with. Not something to pawn off on others, especially not people he— _fuck_ —he loves. But somehow, he’s telling her. Not everything, but about the big family Christmases growing up – “But it ain’t home anymore” – and the make-do parties with a few good companions in some hellhole far away – “Though plenty of those guys never made it back” – and later jobs – “Because this time of year, it sends a message—”

Parker places a cold finger on his lips, giving him permission to stop the flow of words, and he does gratefully. “Is that why you cook so much? At Christmas?” The bird-like tilt of her head is back, considering the angles of what he’s told her. There’s no judgement. Parker judges people on minutiae, but not on memories. Or murder. He shouldn’t be comforted by that, but damn if it doesn’t make it possible to meet her eyes.

“Part of it, yeah. Otherwise I get in my own head too much.” Even after the rest of his confession, he’s surprised to hear himself admit it. “Your head seems like a better place to be.” _Less winter, more wonderland_ , he thinks, watching her weigh his words. That’s a wonder in and of itself.

“You give it all away. The things you make? It’s all for someone else. I liked my cookies, by the way.” He shrugs, hell it’s just _cookies_ , but she steps in close, wrapping her arms around him in a hug that feels awkward at first, and then gradually less as he relaxes into it. “Alec is busy doing the same thing. Hacking Christmas.” She giggles. “ _Baking Christmas, hacking Christmas, is so fine!_ ” she sings, trailing off when he can’t quite hide his wince at the onset of more singing. “You don’t have to talk about being a Santa if you don’t want to.”

_Does it matter?_ Hardison had asked, and he realizes now what he’s already known—that the man is a genius, and no, it doesn’t matter really. All that matters is that she believes in him.

And he needs to do the same.

But he can’t just tell Parker that she’s a Santa, even if visions of her rescuing orphans and battling Sterankos are dancing through his head. This isn’t some stupid prank. This matters to her, so, despite all his grumbling to the contrary, it matters to him, and words won’t cut it. Words don’t cut flesh, or glass, or safes, so words, to them, don’t mean jack shit. (Except Alec’s, but then he always did put his money where his mouth was.)

“You know what we were whispering about?” he asks, escaping her hug for a moment so he can unzip his jacket, before wrapping his arms back around her, now snug inside his coat.

She shakes her head, bumping it against his jaw.

“Your initiation.”

Parker twists her neck at what ought to be an impossible angle. “My what?”

“Every Santa has to go through an initiation. To prove themselves worthy. Me and Hardison, we’ve been planning yours.” The stupid thing is, he doesn’t feel stupid saying it. Especially not when she pulls away, bouncing slightly in anticipation, her face bright and eager.

“What do I have to do?”

“Well, first off, I need a thief to help me rob a toy store.” He can’t help but grin as her eyes light up and she launches herself at him, kissing him hard, her ice-cold nose pressing into his cheek.

 

******

 

“So what do you think? Huge mountain of presents for each one? Beyond their wildest dreams!” Hardison waves his arms above his head in weird squiggle motions that don’t seem to mean anything. On the other side of her, Eliot releases a long-suffering sigh.

“No.”

“Babe, these kids deserve a weird and wonderfu—”

“They can’t take it with ‘em,” Eliot interjects, and she’s glad he’s there to speak when the words get caught in her throat. She’s glad for Hardison too, with his impractical plans. He always thinks too big, but for all the right reasons.

She wants to give them this. Some place warm and safe, with people who make them cookies and retask military satellites. People they can believe in. She’d wanted that until she’d made herself stop, because of all the things she wanted, that wasn’t something she could steal. Or so she’d thought for a very long time.

_But before. When you didn’t have this. What did you have?_

“They should have a Bunny,” she says firmly. “With a hiding space.”

“Yeah! We can stick a lil’ tracker with a recorder in there, keep an eye on—”

 “Dammit, Hardison, you realize how creepy that sound right? Listenin’ in on them?”

“You got a better plan to protect them?”

“Yeah, just watch ‘em from a distance – get an idea based on body language…”

“Oh an’ _that’s_ not creepy? ‘Sides we’re looking at about 20 kids here, man only a dinosaur like you would think—”

She lets the comfortable bickering wash over her, not bothering to track it word for word. Why bother? Alec will monitor the kids. Not through a bug, but through the CPS system and his other little cues, flagging each to make sure they end up somewhere good, keep an eye on them. Eliot will, she knows, watch each one, or rather, watch the foster parents, looking for his own distinctive cues. Santas always watch out, so those fosters better be good for goodness’ sake.

She smiles, turns her face up from where it’s nestled in his shoulder to tell Eliot that, because it’ll make him go all rumbly, but while she’s been thinking, her boys have gone silent, Eliot’s face slack with sleep, while Alec is, yes, watching, in the low ambient light from the street outside.

“He _is_ a Santa,” she whispers to Alec, remembering the way Eliot’s face had flickered through responses, before he’d stormed off earlier. She understands – Eliot doesn’t have her preference for window exits, but he has other escape routes, when things get close. He’s too caught up weighing a past of more naughty than nice, still untangling himself like the Christmas lights she’d let Alec put away the year before. But Santa comes every year, so every year is clean, like fresh-fallen snow.

She thinks maybe he understands that now, but understanding and believing are not the same.

Alec has a funny look on his face, and she has to glare at him until he relents, speaks out loud whatever’s on the surface of his brain, pushing through his skull and tugging at the skin around his eyes. “I think you threw him for a loop, telling him you loved Santa, the other night.” There’s amusement in his quiet voice, and something else, that might be hope.

She blinks, vaguely remembering strong arms and the great need to tell the person they belonged to something important. She’s too awake now, too aware, and Alec is lying there, watching the words clog in her throat. He doesn’t look disappointed when she says nothing, just nods his head at the sleeping Eliot, who sighs a bit when she presses closer to him, but doesn’t wake. “He’ll get the hang of it.”

_So will I._

 

******

 

“Cameras are down, Parker, you’re good to go. See, ain’t it nice when we do stuff as a family?” Hardison grins as he taps away at his phone.

This right here, this is everything he could have hoped for Christmas. Parker’s stealing toys for kids and of all people, it’s Eliot’s idea. Eliot the Grinch, with his heart growing three sizes, doesn’t exactly surprise him. Dude can’t resist making Parker happy, no matter how much he growls. Parker’s right, he’s a Santa through and through.

Like right now.

“Hey man, I don’t wanna punch ya, it’s Christmas, but I will if I have to,” Eliot’s telling the young guard shakily pointing a gun at Eliot. Well, technically he’s pointing it at the other guard, who Eliot’s calmly trussing up, completely unconcerned about the whole gun thing. “That thing goes off, it’s gonna hit your friend here and he doesn’t want to be shot right before Christmas, do you, Greg?”

Greg shakes his head vigorously, and his young partner finally sets down the gun, and lets Eliot bind him as well. “If it makes ya feel better, tell them it took more’n one guy. Cameras are down.” He claps the kid on the shoulder, comes back ‘round the corner, where Hardison is waiting.

“Well, ain’t you in a pacifist mood.”

“Shuddup, it’s Christmas.” If El wanted to add some bite to the words, he probably shouldn’t punctuate them by pulling Hardison down for a quick kiss before they make their way to the loading dock. His man’s in a damn fine spirit tonight.

“Parker, how you doing?” Hardison asks, plenty aware that leaving Parker on her own to do the toy selection could go horribly awry.

“Got just about everything. Shame Walmart doesn’t carry C4, but I know a guy.”

“C4?! Parker NO. What happened to bunnies?”

“Well those too, obviously. But you said find presents that make kids feel safe. C4 makes me feel very safe. And happy. It’s SQUISHY. And I got Playdoh!”

“So give them Playdoh, woman!”

“Pssh, why? What good is playdoh? No, you just need the container, because then the grownups don’t know you’re making shape charges.”

“BABE. NO.”

Eliot holds up a hand, signaling Hardison that he has this. “Can’t approve of that gift, Santa-in-Training,” he mutters. “All gifts must be child-appropriate, as per the . . . Santa Code, section 4, article C.”

Parker blew out a breath. “Ugh, who thought Santas would be so _boring_.”

 

“Why is this entire aisle pink?” she asks a minute later. “It looks like someone projectile vomited Pepto-Bismol.”

“Don’t think we have time to go into societal gender politics at the moment, babe, but I’m not disagreeing with you.”

“Nope, he sure ain’t. Babe.” Eliot’s in front of him, making sure their path is clear, so he can’t see his smug ass face, but the smirk is audible.

“Hey, now, we all babes in toyland right now,” he says, dodging the elbow Eliot throws his way before jogging off to get Lucille.

Up ahead, Parker’s waiting for him, bouncing with glee next to several shopping carts piled high with what looks like the entire stuffed-toy section.

“We gonna need some elves to help us wrap all of this.”

“Look what I found!” She beams, holding up three hangers draped in something red, white, kinda fuzzy—

“Eliot, man, this was your idea, and I want you to remember that…”

 

“I ain’t wearin’ it.” Eliot always looks adorable when he scowls. He’s pretty sure it has to do with the extra forehead wrinkles combined with his second-best demonstration of murder eyes. (Only actual bad guys get his prime murder eyes, and Parker, despite insisting that they all wear matching Santa onesies, is somehow still not on Eliot’s hit list. Amazing.)

Now, there’s the added adorability factor of Eliot scowling while setting a steaming mug of hot cocoa—with extra marshmallows for both him and Parker—on the coffee table next to Hardison, before settling down beside him to continue his share of the gift wrapping.

Parker pouts at him over her own mug of cocoa, which rivals Eliot’s scowl for adorableness. He’s going to need to establish a ranking algorithm here shortly. She’s got a bow stuck to her hair, and several pieces of tape lining her chin like the weirdest Amish beard ever. She insists it’s for easy access. “It’s a uniform! Its own kind of invisibility.”

“I know how uniforms work, Parker, but I ain’t wearing Santa pajamas! What about that Santa outfit from the mall job?”

_Santa, did I just here Eliot bargaining to WEAR that outfit? Have I been extra good this year?_ “It uh, it got damaged in the move, like real, real bad. Sorry man, didn’t figure you’d miss it,” Hardison says, making a note to disappear that costume before Eliot has a chance to go check his story. “Beard’s still around though.”

“That thing’s itchy, you wear it!”

“Hey, my skin is sensitive . . .” he settles comfortably into their bickering, winking at Parker, as Eliot reaches over to snag a piece of tape off her chin.

 

******

 

“Next up, on the Secret Santa Express, Carrie, age 5, and already been through four different homes,” Hardison announces as he pulls Lucille up to the curb and points to a dilapidated house down the road. As with the last five houses, there’s no chimney.

“When do I get a chimney?” She demands. Even if it isn’t a reliable access point, it is a _classic_.

“How many times—we ain’t goin’ down a chimney, Parker!”

“Well, you don’t have to, Sparky, but some of us Santas need to uphold the tradition!” She yanks on his fake beard, grinning. Back at the brewpub, Hardison had relented in his insistence that he’d destroyed the Santa suit after they’d finally convinced Eliot to try on the one she’d stolen.

“I—I—I swear, I can take in the arms man! And the feet-feet-feetsies!” Hardison had howled, trying to escape a snarling Eliot in too big Santa pajamas. The Santa suit is better, anyway. Alec’s promised to make her one – with extra pockets!

Maybe she should have worn the elf outfit from that job, since Eliot insists on coming in every house to watch her back, just in case. “Normal people don’t see all the Santas I see.”

“Fuck normal,” Eliot had growled. “You’re a Santa.”

At least hers fits much better than Eliot’s had, and if they do get a house with a chimney, she won’t have the extra bulk. Or the beard.

She grins as Eliot huffs and climbs out of the van. “Hey, if you’re gettin’ bored of Hardison’s lockpicks, I can take over.”

“You suck at breaking into houses,” she reminds him, taking the lead as they slip through the shadows.

Hardison snorts, an odd sound over the comms. “Oh, he’s great at _breaking_ in.”

“Says the guy waiting in the van, cause he stepped on a squeaky toy in the first damn house.”

“Hey now, this elf made Santa a new set of lock picks that she needs to break in . . . by breakin’ in. ‘Sides, someone’s gotta be the getaway driver and watch your asses, and I mean that literally.”

Parker smiles at Eliot’s groan and Hardison’s answering cackle. “Shh now.” Kneeling at the lock to a back door, she inserts her new lock picks, _a wiggle here . . . nudge there . . . yessss_. She beams at Eliot as she stands back to let him enter first.

He pauses in the narrow hall, waving her forward, and she steps past him into a living room trying hard not to be dingy. There’s a plate of cookies waiting by one of the windows—a sensible spot with no fireplace in the room—and she snags three as she passes, tossing another one back to Eliot and ignoring the face he makes as he catches it. Probably store-bought, which are never quite as good. She tastes one warily and grins. It’s perfectly fine, store-bought sure, but _she_ didn’t buy it.

She moves over to the plastic tree, standing dark in the corner. The package in her hands isn’t a bunny. Some of them are, but the shape and the ears aren’t the most important thing. There’s a specific amount of squish a toy needs, a certain softness to its fur that continues to be interesting after a few minutes, hours, days. She chose them all, carefully. This one is a bear, she remembers, even through the shiny paper. Sometimes, bright colors make a good disguise.

Alec added secret hiding pouches, hidden so cleverly that only someone who spends time loving the toy would notice. They’re empty. She’d considered hiding diamonds, or a few non-sequential hundreds, after her C4 idea was nixed by Eliot. But they might have other treasures that need to be kept safe.

“Santa?” a tiny voice asks.

Parker jumps and glances up to see a small face watching her through the bannister. She holds up a hand, first in a quick gesture to stop Eliot from coming forward, and second to wave at the little girl. “Carrie?”

She nods, shyly. “You don’t look like Santa.”

Parker smiles as if she’s letting her in on a secret, which, in some ways she is. “No, but Santa looks like me!” She steps forward, holds out the present. “This is for you.”

“Hafta share,” Carrie mutters sullenly.

“Not this present. It’s yours. You might have to hide it, because adults are stupid, but Santa says it’s yours.”

In the hallway, Eliot is gesturing for her to hurry up.

“Can I open it?”

Parker nods and watches as she tears off the wrapping paper, hugs the bear tightly. “Thanks, Santa!” she whispers and creeps back up the stairs.

There’s something hot and fierce beating at the inside of her chest as she slips away with Eliot. He must see it, somehow—maybe it’s _distinctive_ —because he grabs her hand and squeezes it tight as they make their way back to Hardison.

“She called me Santa!” she crows to Alec the moment she climbs into the back of Lucille. Her heart’s racing as if she’s just plunged off a building, not broken into a barely locked house. It’s never felt this wonderful, and she didn’t even steal anything!

“Damn straight she did!” Alec holds out a hand for a low five, and she slaps it, wiggling her fingers.

Eliot, riding shotgun, does his serious danger-scan face as Hardison pulls away from the curb, but she can see the corners of his mouth twitching. “Congratulations.”

“I passed the initiation?!”

“Of course. What makes a Santa is belief,” Alec says, his eyes catching her in the rearview mirror. “I’d say that makes us three of a kind.” He winks at her and slides his eyes towards Eliot mischievously. It’s not hard to get the hint.

“Birds of a feather!” she answers, climbing forward to wedge herself in between her two boys.

Eliot groans at them bringing up _the song_ again, but his voice is soft as he finishes, “Now and forever.”


End file.
